Dreamscapes
by Sweeney Agonistes
Summary: Vignettes with Snape inspired by T.S. Eliot, among others.
1. Vignette I

A/N: Some non-interconnected, hyper-literary vignettes featuring everybody's favorite Potions professor. Beta-read by the spiffilicious Zsenya at the Sugar Quill. You get HTML there because they can do it and I can't. Please go see there, and please assume all usual disclaimers.  
  
Despite what anyone else might have thought, he positively abhorred Knockturn Alley.  
  
Severus wound his way down the dank, filthy street, wishing he could look up and see the stars. An image that had always stuck with him from the bits of Muggle literature that he had read was Dante and Virgil emerging from the Inferno to see the stars. Dante had freed himself from the Inferno, led by his mentor.  
  
A bit too analogous for his liking.  
  
But the sense of wonder he got from his mental image of Dante, surfacing and looking at the stars as though they were a breath of fresh air, was a feeling that he never lost. Sometimes he'd even go back and re-read the entire canto on the bad nights when he couldn't sleep, and then he would go up to the Astronomy Tower and sit and try to think about better things.  
  
Tonight, the buildings were too close together, and they leaned over the street. To add insult to injury, it was cloudy.  
  
Severus turned the corner and came face-to-face with a hag. She hissed in his face; a foul reek of decay rudely invaded his nostrils. He shoved his way past her and continued.  
  
He heard her throwing curses at his back. Let her, he thought. She wouldn't dare try anything. If she did, then it would be a sore mistake on her part. He was not in the mood to be trifled with.  
  
Dumbledore had asked him to run some papers down to Sherrinford Shiftlet at the Lethifold's Lair so Shiftlet could verify the intelligence information listed there. Lucius Malfoy again, up to his old tricks. Severus allowed himself a brief sneer. The papers, among other things, contained an inventory of certain Dark Arts materials held by Lucius at Malfoy Manor. Sherrinford, having been a denizen of Knockturn Alley for years, could confirm or deny many things on the inventory. The old curmudgeon probably sold half those things to Malfoy himself, thought Severus irritably.  
  
This minor errand was a detestable task, but not nearly so bad as the things that Dumbledore had had him do before the war ended.  
  
And so Severus found himself in Knockturn Alley without – audible – complaint.  
  
He stormed down the dark cobblestones, cloak billowing behind him. And then suddenly, the feeling that one always had of surreptitious eyes watching one in Knockturn Alley was gone – it was as though he was alone in the world, blessedly alone. The moon had come out; the stench of rot and mildew was gone as it was for a few fleeting moments after a rain shower.  
  
Severus took a deep breath, savoring the clear, cool air. His mind cleared. He turned to his left and was faced with the dilapidated façade of the Lethifold's Lair.  
  
He stretched one hand forward, planting his palm on the smooth, age-worn wood of the door. The door swung open on silent hinges; he entered.  
  
His eyes adjusted to the greater darkness quickly. He saw Shiftlet standing, gaunt as ever, behind his counter, eyes glittering.  
  
"Mr. Shiftlet," Severus said softly.  
  
"Professor Snape," Shiftlet returned in gravelly, gruff tones. He stepped into a square of moonlight that fought hardily to enter the shop from a rather dirty window. "You have something for me, I believe?"  
  
Severus withdrew an envelope from an inner pocket of his robes and handed it to him wordlessly.  
  
Shiftlet broke the seal on the envelope and scanned its contents quickly. "Tell him I'll get back to him within the week."  
  
He nodded and turned to go. Shiftlet's voice stopped him. "Professor Snape." Severus turned and saw an odd little half-smile cross Shiftlet's craggy face. "You might want to look up when you get outside."  
  
Severus looked at him mistrustfully for a moment. Seeing nothing more on the other man's face, he left.  
  
Once he was free of the shop, he stopped in the middle of the alley. Shiftlet worked for Dumbledore; he would not leave one of Dumbledore's couriers a trap – even if that courier was an ex-Death Eater.  
  
Severus looked up.  
  
And he saw the stars.  
  
The old, decaying buildings had somehow been pulled away from the alley, and the clouds had dissipated, leaving a clear, magnificent night sky.  
  
Severus looked at his old friends among the stars – the Old Bear, Orion standing firm and strong, Cassiopeia in her chair, the Twins smiling down at him. A warm feeling spread from his chest all the way out to the ends of his fingers and toes. His friends, the stars.  
  
He turned back to look at the Lethifold's Lair. Sherrinford Shiftlet was standing at the window holding a candle and giving him that same half- smile. Shiftlet raised a hand in salute and blew out the candle.  
  
Severus raised his own hand in return, suddenly feeling more light-hearted than he had in a long time.  
  
Placing his hands in his pockets, he left Knockturn Alley, fighting a smile the entire way. 


	2. Vignette II

Snape stared at what remained of the house with Albus Dumbledore standing behind him.  
  
It wasn't the first attack since Voldemort's return, and it wouldn't be the last. But it was the first one that he'd seen so soon after it was all over. The Mark was still hanging over the house. The face of the Mark seemed to be laughing at him.  
  
Alastor Moody stumped up and said, "Dumbledore – there's something you ought to see inside."  
  
Dumbledore removed his impervious gaze from the crumbled bricks and said, "All right, Alastor." He followed the Auror, beckoning Severus to come along behind him. Snape followed; he was there to observe, after all.  
  
Moody led them through the doorframe and turned down what remained of the hall. He paused outside another doorway at the back of the house and said, "In there."  
  
Dumbledore entered; Severus followed.  
  
It was a little girl's room, done in soft, unobtrusive pink. The walls were adorned with a child's cheerful drawings of people and houses. A Victorian wall sconce illuminated the room softly. A small white wooden table was set for tea, and three of the four matching chairs were occupied with a stuffed rabbit, a stuffed bear, and a stuffed kneazle. In the corner by the bay window rested a canopy bed with a single occupant, only distinguishable from the bedclothes by the long, intensely red hair that was in sharp contrast to the white blankets.  
  
The strangest thing about that room was the fact that it was intact, while the rest of the house had suffered major amounts of damage. A very strange thing, indeed. Why leave the child, and – presumably – kill the parents?  
  
Snape turned to look at the door; Moody was staring at the two of them. Dumbledore was standing over the bed, watching the girl. Moody cleared his throat. "Albus."  
  
Dumbledore turned. He still had that stern, closed look on his face – it made Severus feel unsettled. Better any emotion than none at all. Moody said, "The bodies are in the other room."  
  
Dumbledore rose and followed Moody out of the room, not looking at Severus. He took that as an unspoken command to stay where he was. That suited him just fine – he had no desire to look at dead bodies just now.  
  
He took Dumbledore's spot by the bed and stood there for a moment, looking down at the small creature lying there. All he could see was the lump under the blankets – except, of course, for the hair. The flame-red hair.  
  
He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling very old and tired.  
  
All he could do was look at that hair. It was flames; it drew him as a moth was drawn to a flame. Before he knew it, he had reached out and touched the hair that had spilled on the pillow. He drew back quickly, as if the strands had burned him.  
  
The little girl did not move. He gained courage from that, and reached out again.  
  
Such an innocent thing. Why hadn't the Death Eaters done anything to her? The rest of the house was in ruins; this room was an island. An idyllic sort of island.  
  
No man is an island, Severus. Her hair was soft under his hand. He gently lifted a strand, scrutinizing it haphazardly, marveling at the texture created by a few simple, soft threads.  
  
He looked down at her, at the girl he did not know, the girl who had inexplicably survived a vicious, unmerited attack, and he thanked whatever gods there were that he had never had children. Would never have children.  
  
For looking at her was painful. She had survived the Death Eaters, but what would happen to her now? Did she have relatives who would take her in? Would she end up like Potter, shoved in a cupboard under the stairs? Would something happen to her to make her like those craven bastards who had killed her parents?  
  
He did not know. He knew that he could not know. And he wasn't sure that he wanted to know, even if he could.  
  
There was something that he could do, though.  
  
And as he sat on the edge of the little-girl bed, stroking the soft, smooth hair of its occupant, he offered up his thoughts to whatever higher authority might be listening.  
  
Are you up there? Are you anywhere?  
  
I still haven't decided what I think of you all – or if you even exist, as I don't understand how you could exist and let someone do things like this. You obviously didn't care much about this little one, or you would have, at the worst, let her be killed along with her parents. It would have been kinder than having her awaken, as she no doubt will in a few hours, and find that the collective center of her universe has disappeared forever.  
  
If you don't care about her, do it for me. Not, of course, that I deserve any favors – but it's supposed to make a difference if someone else asks for her, right? The more good thoughts, the merrier? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?  
  
Let her know that her parents loved her. It's obvious enough from this room – even someone like me can tell that. Let this be a lesson for her; let her realize and value her moments of happiness more because of this night. Don't let her be angry and try to channel her anger into any extreme. The Aurors are, in their own way, almost as bad as the Death Eaters. Extremists, all of them.  
  
Don't let her go to relatives like Potter's. As much as I detest the boy, he didn't deserve a cupboard under the stairs. That aunt and uncle of his are what sometimes makes me think that the Dark Lord's ideas weren't all out of place. And this little girl – she deserves better. She's had enough hurt. Potter doesn't remember his parents; she will.  
  
Let her grow up. Let her be Sorted into a good House. Let her grow old with someone who loves her. Let her be happy, despite this night and all the events that will happen because of it.  
  
Let her know the peace that I never had.  
  
Movement came from underneath his fingers. He withdrew his hand quickly. The little girl slowly came awake. She yawned and turned towards him; he could see a light dusting of freckles in the soft light from the wall sconce. Her eyes blinked once, twice; she saw him and froze.  
  
He sat, reserved, on the edge of her bed.  
  
They regarded each other for a moment. He noted that she did not seem to find him threatening – a first.  
  
"Hello," she said to him. It was almost an inquiry.  
  
"Hello," he said. It was almost an affirmation.  
  
And with those particulars settled, she disentangled herself from the covers, sat in his lap, and hugged him.  
  
He was shocked, but recovered enough to reciprocate the gesture. So this is what a child of mine would have felt like. He held her.  
  
And she started to cry.  
  
He stroked her hair.  
  
And then his own tears came.  
  
And that was how Albus Dumbledore found them a few minutes later – the dark man and the light child, entangled in a quiet, gently empathetic, oddly peaceful deluge.  
  
The abstract, colorful drawings on the walls were a testimony to what had been; the fact of the man and the girl was a testimony to what was; the pinched, worried, and yet serene look on the observant face of Albus Dumbledore was the testimony to what would be. 


	3. Vignette III

Snape walked for hours through the forest and came to a door.  
  
He had been walking for at least three miles, following the path that he could barely see in front of him -- the path was no more than a few inches wide, and it was very, very dark. He had to depend on his wand for light, but he dared not make it overly bright -- there were things in the woods. Here there be monsters, he thought darkly, and moved on.  
  
The path had been worn over time by various creatures -- creatures that rarely came out of the forest. He had found himself faced with it on his evening patrol, and he inexplicably felt compelled to see where it went.  
  
It started out straight enough, with only a few low bushes among the evergreens. But then it curved sharply, and it was as though he was suddenly thrust into a whole different world. This world was totally dark, clear, and quiet.  
  
Dangerously quiet.  
  
He climbed over errant tree roots. He never told anyone, but running in the forest had been a favorite activity as a child. Feeling the natural stair- steps beneath his feet now made him feel slightly more secure -- this was familiar territory.  
  
Not, of course, that he felt insecure. Rather the opposite. He knew he should feel more uneasy than he did. This was the Forbidden Forest, after all. Things lived here that Snape had no desire to tangle with -- he had heard rumors about a colony of Acromantula, and he was certain that other, even less desirable things abounded here.  
  
Time seemed to slip away from him as he walked. It often did when he was lost in thought, but he had no thoughts now. He was aware of time going by at an alarming rate, but he was not alarmed. Something -- or someone -- would not let him be alarmed.  
  
He simply walked.  
  
And just as thoughts of fatigue edged their way nervously into his mind, he came to a clearing.  
  
A pale, bright moon had emerged from the sneakily sinister clouds -- wisps of those clouds still cast a brief shadow on the ground in front of him. Grass interspersed with intermittent pine needles covered the ground. He stood, the almost-sinister moon shining down unfavorably on him, lengthening his shadow until it was grotesque.  
  
A door stood in front of him.  
  
It was a simple yet elegant arrangement: the dark, smooth wood -- he somehow knew it was made of wood, even though he had not touched it -- rested steadfast in the marble frame. A knob that shone soft silver in the moonlight presented itself on the door's right side.  
  
He knew without question that this was what he had been meant to find.  
  
He also knew that if he circled around the door, he would find nothing but the other half of the clearing.  
  
However --  
  
What would happen if he opened it?  
  
Snape could remember an admonishment from some otherwise forgotten "mentor" in the recruitment stages of his days as a Death Eater. Don't unlock doors you're not prepared to go through, Snape.  
  
Sometimes one did not know what was on the other side of the door. He did not know if he was prepared.  
  
He raised his head to the sky. The moon seemed to be laughing malevolently at him. He started to snarl at it, but stopped, as though he realized that it was only a trick of his imagination. He did not like the feeling of being unprepared.  
  
He had been an accomplice to atrocity. He had committed countless crimes. His students feared him; his colleagues did not trust him. He was widely regarded as someone not to cross.  
  
And yet a simple door managed to make him hesitate.  
  
Severus Snape never hesitated.  
  
Just like Severus Snape is always prepared, he thought with some asperity.  
  
His sense of being controlled had left him; his own thoughts were the only thing there. He stood feet shoulder-width apart, arms akimbo, frowning at this door.  
  
There were so many options. There could be the faces of those he had killed or helped kill -- always a cheerful thought. There could be a gorgeous brunette who actually was interested in him -- also a cheerful thought, but much less likely than the former option. He somehow did not think that whatever had brought him here had done so with the intention of giving him some pleasure or respite.  
  
And then it occurred to him that whatever was on the other side of the door might be lethal. It could be a trap. Or even a Portkey, he thought. Not that there's anywhere I particularly want to go -- or anyone who would want me there.  
  
Of course, there was always the simplest answer: someone had put up a door in the middle of a clearing in the Forbidden Forest for no reason whatsoever other than pure whimsy. But Snape didn't think so -- the Forest would have long since taken over the door, despite any enchantments to the contrary. The Forest had a way of doing that.  
  
A cloud drifted across the moon; Snape shivered unconsciously.  
  
A soft, fine drizzle began to fall. He did not notice.  
  
He simply looked at the door as one would while sharing some silent communication with an old friend of questionable loyalty. All thought of 'options' left him; all thought of danger left him.  
  
And after a while, he looked up at the moon. It was softly veiled by a few wayward bands of cloud. The cloud gave him the answer he needed.  
  
He stretched out his hand and touched the knob. He paused a moment, as if to steel himself, looking at the dully shining knob for strength.  
  
And then he opened the door.  
  
What he saw made him stand slack. His arms dropped to his sides; he looked, raising his chin in an act of subtle supplication.  
  
When he was finished, he left the clearing, retracing his footsteps along the path.  
  
The door closed softly behind him with a barely audible click.  
  
And the next morning, when he snuck out before breakfast to try to find the path, to prove to himself that it hadn't been a dream --  
  
He could not. 


End file.
